


Just Missed

by Lyonface



Series: Prompt Fills and Flash Fiction [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyonface/pseuds/Lyonface
Summary: Solas reminisces in a ruin about what he's left behind. Previous tothis prompt fill.





	Just Missed

[](http://thelyonface.tumblr.com/post/168043928828/popliar-the-last-stand-by-marc-wilson)

These ruins had not withstood the test of time, it would seem. Many did not, under the deluge of battle, of wind and earth, or the lifting of the Veil, there were many structures whose integrity and use had become questionable long before the first blinded, untethered elves stepped foot here, and however many more may have sullied the sanctity of such a place afterward. There had been many over his journey since he’d awoken from such a long, long sleep, fraught with the images and tired, tired ideas rotating on an axis throughout history. There was never a question what the people of Thedas would do or what they were capable of doing; it was only a matter of when they would make the same repeated mistakes once again. War and battle wore down and buried the history of the former wars and battles, banners falling and soldiers dying on mounds of decay that were once other banners and dying soldiers. The monuments of ages passed, the castles and forts constructed to shelter and withstand insurrection were always, at one time, impressive things to behold, even if all they inspired now was comparable to pity.

And yet now they sit, just as quiet as the graves they became. A small room, once part of a powerful and awe-inspiring structure, now perched on the edge of the world.

Solas took a breath of the cold mountain air, remarkably still at such a high altitude, in such a barren place. Perhaps the wind was vacant because there was nothing to see, no walls, windows, or rooms to explore for however many centuries this place had been left to the elements, however many millennia. He exhaled, a cloud of condensation drifting away as his keen eyes worried over the steep drop down into the pines of the surrounding forest, shrouded in dense fog.

When would he come this time?

The memory of the warmth of his laugh would have soothed him in similar evenings previously, whatever daydream his mind would happily run away with during the slow, cold nights of excavation and research conducted in the Hissing Wastes, his imagination knowing precisely where to turn to get away when the incessant complaining of sand from their scouting party always met the wall of the Inquisitor’s stoic, uncaring silence for days on end. No matter how fascinating the dwarven ruins proved to be, their discoveries of traps and spirits among the artifacts and tombs, it would be false to say that there weren’t plenty of occasions when he would much prefer to be back in Skyhold behind a chessboard, watching the Commander’s focused gaze gleam with the machinations of his strategy, always adjusting and never wavering. How he would fight harder, smarter when it seemed like defeat was inevitable but victory remained a possibility, no matter how slim. That tenacious spirit glowed, even when he was at his worst, crippled in his office by lyrium withdrawal, and oh did that spirit have such a _pull_ to it. His courage pulled those to his command like a beacon, followers and leaders alike. The loyalty of his soldiers was no inspired by fear, as many lesser military men would fall back on in times of crisis, but from the desire to follow and prove themselves to him. It was no wonder so many simple men and women at the Winter Palace were so taken by him. How his desperate eyes would seek out his company among the parishioners...

“Sir.”

Solas blinked, realizing he’d forgotten himself for a period of time in his memories once again, an old habit it seems he had not yet shaken. The silence and emptiness of the space suddenly felt crowded with the addition of another, and his posture straightened. He turned to the scout approaching him, the man’s cowl thrown from his head and off kilter.

Solas’s voice edged with the distance his mind still desired. “Yes?”

“The Inquisitions’ forces are within sight of our outermost scouting party.”

He turned more fully away from the window then, pulling the wolf pelt closer over his shoulder as he does, affixing it securely in anticipation of participating once again on a long journey. His voice returned to his present.  “How far?”

The scout seemed to consider his gesture and reached up to correct the lay of his cowl, putting it back over his head. “Less than a day’s march.”

He frowned at that. The other elf was quick to add, “They started from a different direction than we had anticipated, given their last known location.”

Solas set his jaw. Perhaps they used magic this time; it certainly was not outside of the realm of possibility. Though that would typically suggest that the Inquisitor was at the helm of their search party, he highly doubted that possibility. One arm didn’t make casting impossible, but it certainly made it a lot more difficult. Still, the idea that it might not be his search party this time... It was not as relieving as it should be.

Without being prompted, his guest added, “We are already evacuating.”

Solas took one more look out the broken doorway of the tiny room. “Good. You know where the nearest temple is located and the means to get there. I will be along shortly.”

He was given a brief nod before the scout turned on his heel and made his way out of the small, barely intact room and down what remained of the stone leading up to it, perched on a precipice of stone and memory. Solas pulled the belt around his waist tighter to better secure the pelt that held warm against what little skin it touched and followed after him.

They were always ready to move out at a moment’s notice, and each leader was always aware of the next leg of their journey to move if it was necessary to do so before Solas gave the order. A highly efficient and functioning system, but as always, the larger it became, the more he had to worry over the details, the comings and goings, the new agents. His true purpose was not theirs to know, the possible repercussions of the Veil crashing down over their heads. The only thing required was knowing his motive and his demonstration to lead, which were easy enough to produce.

What remained of the stronghold was largely underground, and even now the sounds of hurried footsteps was distant and drawn, echoing along walls that would see feet again soon, their visit unlikely to last very long before the space was plunged back into isolation. There was little of import to gather beyond supplies, and yet Solas did not make haste to the mirror immediately. He lingered, his feet taking him from room to room, each room more empty and devoid of noise than the last. More familiar. More like the tomb he’d buried himself in long ago, only to wake to a living hell after so much time had passed. The silence then had been deafening in those hidden ruins. After so much time now, he almost longed for it. Despite the chaos, it was almost simpler, and though the humor was not lost on him, he felt no mirth for it.

A soldier saluted and brushed by him with papers set to burn from another room and he stepped inside, noticing a small scrap that had fallen from his grasp. Upon inspecting it, it was clean, and it could almost feel the warmth lingering from the hand that had held it previously. A familiar feeling. It...seemed a shame to waste such an opportunity.

Sentimentality took him and he approached a desk nearby, lighting the largest candle with a glance, the same red as the ones that sat on his desk in the rotunda at one time. He had swiftly learned the time of day by how much red shown on his documents beneath the glare of the sun through its walls, when it would soon be time for dinner and to light said candle before continuing until the odd hours of the evening. For some time while they settled at Skyhold, cleaning the remains of a castle that once was his own, the Commander would send his runners to him with this or that message or request just as he did any other, but the routine changed when his office was finally decided to be the one just a brief walk away from him. A lone, solitary office on the ramparts, away from the others but always within reach, similar and yet unlike his own study, placed firmly within the traffic that required a visit to the library, to the lower bailey, to the aviary, or to the main hall. Being isolated was, after all, not very advantageous, and at times it proved to be quite lonely. Lonely enough that, perhaps, after a not entirely chance game of chess between the two of them, the Commander would occasionally deliver messages to the apostate himself, be it in the rotunda or to call upon him.

The orchestration of the man’s trust and at least his interest had been tactical, but his genuine friendship...his genuine affection, had been the furthest thing from Solas’s mind at the time. He could almost laugh bitterly at the route things had taken, how often he had wondered precisely when the situation had gotten so entirely out of his control. Perhaps it wasn’t a moment, but a series of moments that built upon one another until his self-control and self-denial collapsed under the weight of such an earnest spirit; a spirit that knew what it meant to truly endure. Something he continued to labor under even now, that need to press on...

Even an enduring spirit, he reasoned, could use encouragement.

After a brief moment of considering simply burning the message into the paper or altering the pigments, he noticed a discarded quill and took it up. There was ink inside, but it was dry. It was enough. Carefully, he rolled the end of the feather over the small flame, containing it as best he could before setting it to paper.

_You will reach your objective, Commander. I know it._

He considered adding more, but the ink would not allow for it. A simple message was likely best. Turning the feather, he set the plume to the flame before blowing out the candle, letting his message lie on the desk. He used the flame to burn the quill to ash as he stepped away. Perhaps he wouldn’t see it or read it, or a soldier of his will deliver it to him, or he might find it on his own while looking for any evidence or clue that he would ultimately not find. That would be ideal, but ultimately, he would leave it to however it played out this time.

                It was a silly thing, but as Solas left that room and stepped through the eluvian further into the caverns and sealed it behind him, the feeling of the Fade still did not dash the sadness he felt at that note possibly not being found, his message not being delivered, even if it may not have the effect that he truly wished it would. It could be taken as a manipulative ploy to distract him, something a villain might do to encourage the chase. That was a bitter, sour idea. As often as he had wished for his memories with Cullen, the honesty and warmth in his heart, to leave him, he knew he couldn’t bear it if they did, just as he knew Cullen would wish to forget about him and yet be unable to. Of course, there was always chance in this game. The Veil coming down may not yet destroy Thedas immediately or at all; there is always the possibility that people might yet live, at least for a time. Perhaps there might come a day where the Commander will be free of his memory and forget the hollow feeling that comes with such a betrayal of his trust and friendship, the ache in his heart easing after it forgets the method behind the scar placed upon it. Perhaps his mind would let go of one unique betrayal among many, a broken romance to become yet another victim to the throes of time and decay.

                It was a silly thing, and yet, he still hoped.


End file.
